Pokémon: The Fate of the Gods
by Morrowson
Summary: A Pokémon fan fiction loosely based off of the video games, in which several trainers from all five major regions are faced with challenges and difficulties, while a man with no real agenda save a hatred of all Pokémon plots in the background.
1. The Eye of the Wise

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon, or any other copyrighted material that may or may not appear in this or other fanfictions.

Author's Note: I'm going to keep this short and simple. This is my second Pokémon fanfiction, though my first was abandoned very shortly into production. I do plan to take a few artistic liberties. Consider this an alternate reality, if you like. I take from the games, though the plotlines are – hopefully – all original. And please, enjoy.

**The Fate of the Gods**

Part 1: The Eye of the Wise

Luke nudged the thing on the ground with the toe of his boot. It was pitiful.

_No_, Luke thought, _because 'pitiful' implies that I actually feel pity for it_. It was disturbing and slightly unsettling, but Luke felt nothing for it. He sighed, and stopped pushing at it. It was not clean.

He glanced quickly at his surroundings. Massive stone pillars, erected centuries ago, stood mute and flanked a long marble path. The ceiling was raised several stories above his head, or rather, it would have been, if it still existed. Large chunks of once-polished stone stood scattered in the passageway as the last survivors of the old, vaulted ceiling.

Sunlight trickled its way down the dark marble walls behind the stone columns. It was not yet midday, and Luke was still drenched in shadows. The door at the far end of the corridor, however, burned with red-hot insignias imbedded into its stone. On it were the ancient signs for the words 'fire,' 'inferno,' and 'volcano.'

He grinned, and then began chuckling, louder and louder, until his laughter filled the whole of the corridor. No one was around to be disconcerted by his display, however. He had made it this far all on his own. It was his right, as the sole discoverer of these ruins, to enter alone.

His tools had been broken trying to enter this area of the ruins, however. Glyphs on the walls outside had warned of such possible consequences should those unworthy try to gain access to the passage, and according to said glyphs, all were unworthy. But Luke paid no heed. He regretted, only slightly, that all his instruments had been destroyed in the journey to this point, but now, he figured that he would not need them.

The thing on the floor stirred, catching Luke's eye. Luke glanced back down at it, and met its reddish brown eyes with his own cold blue ones. The tiny thing began to purr up at him; a sad cry, a disconsolate sound, which, if one truly stretched the imagination, could be taken to sound like 'Vulpix.'

Luke had never had that sort of imagination, and had never bothered to try and figure out what the creature was trying to communicate, like so many others did, because he was quite sure that none of the creatures, indeed, _could_ communicate.

Luke raised his foot. Tools, from this point on, would only get in the way. It was better to dispose of them, he thought, when suddenly, he heard the door at the end of the passage creak open and hiss with the sound of wind from centuries ago rushing out at great speeds. Luke was almost toppled.

From behind the door came a shrill cry, another sound that Luke had never paid much attention to, until now. He smiled, and looked down at the beast quivering with pain and fear underneath his raised foot.

As he gathered the Vulpix in his arms, Luke stood and faced the doorway from whence the wind came. It had not stopped blowing since the door opened, which was a very good sign, Luke thought. He pushed forward, struggling slightly through the wind, wondering just how useful his last remaining tool could prove to be.

And as he walked onward, the Vulpix let out a mournful cry towards the ruins from which they had come – a dirge for the other tools Luke had disposed of.

--

A bolt of electricity soared through the air almost faster than the eye could follow, and the tiny bird Pokémon barely dodged the blast. "Keep it up, Cherry!" a human cried. Like most wild Pokémon, the Pidgey couldn't fully understand what the human was saying, but the basic meaning of his words was very obvious, so the Pidgey continued to flee.

"Don't let it get away, Cherry! Use a Quick Attack!" The small Pikachu nicknamed Cherry nodded shortly to show that it understood. As a Pokémon who had been traveling with a trainer for some time, Cherry was beginning to understand more and more of what her trainer, a young boy named Cyril, was trying to say. In this case, he was referring to an attack that Cherry launched whenever she pushed herself forward to tackle an opponent at lightning speed.

Cyril had his hand on his Pokédex and another hand on a Poké Ball at his side. On his belt, in two other Poké Balls, were two Pokémon; one, a Squirtle, the rare Water-type Pokémon native to the Kanto region, and the other a Mankey, a monkey-like Fighting-type Pokémon usually found in mountainous regions.

Cyril was more used to fighting with Squirtle – whom he had nicknamed Turtley – who was his first Pokémon, and with Sniggle, his Mankey; but he had caught Cherry relatively recently in the Viridian Forest, and he wanted to give the Electric-type mouse a bit of training, even if she would be mostly useless against the Rock and Ground type Pokémon of the Pewter City Gym Leader, Brock.

Cherry had slammed the Pidgey to the ground with her Quick Attack, and was looking up at Cyril expectantly. The young boy stole a glance at his Pokédex, frowning slightly as he did so.

The Pokédex was an enormously helpful tool; aside from being an encyclopedia of Pokémon he had previously seen or caught, it also displayed his current battling Pokémon's stats and moveset, along with the opposing Pokémon's life force – calculated in roughly estimated units known as 'hit points' – and its level. According to his Pokédex, the Pidgey had a good amount of spark left in it.

"Hit it with a ThunderShock!" Cherry glanced up at her trainer and nodded again, before releasing volts of electricity from her body and into the Pidgey that she was trying to keep pinned underneath her body – a difficult task, as Cherry was on the small size for a Pikachu, and the Pidgey was on the larger side, making Cherry actually smaller than her opponent.

The Pidgey squirmed and screeched as the electricity coursed into its body, and Cyril looked at the Pokédex as the Pokémon's hit points dropped steadily, slowing down and finally settling in the 'red zone'. He grinned and looked up at the staggering Pidgey; Cherry had already backed away, knowing what was coming next.

A Poké Ball soared in the air and hit the weakened Pidgey on the back of the head. In a burst of smoke and light, the bird was sucked into the Poké Ball and struggled, ever so slightly, before the Ball took on a light, soothing color, indicating a successful capture.

Cyril called Cherry back into her Poké Ball and reached down to pick up the Ball of his new companion. He fidgeted with the Ball for a moment, staring at it as if he could see the Pidgey inside.

He decided that he would nickname it "Twitter."

--

Cris held her cheek tenderly and blinked back tears as quickly as she could, for crying was not acceptable.

"How could you lose? This is the seventh time you've done so!" The voice belonged to a very large man. The sort of man who had a lot of power and knew it. He raised his hand and brought it down swiftly on his daughter's head. Perhaps he wanted to beat some sense into her. Or perhaps he was just very, very angry.

"I-I… d-didn't mean t-to…" she muttered, barely audible through clenched teeth. A long time ago, she had realized that if she tried to stand up for herself, she would simply be hit harder. A shorter time ago, she had realized that if she did not try and stand up for herself, she would go insane with rage.

"Of course you didn't!" the man bellowed. They were seated in a very large room that shouted elegance. It had wooden tables and chairs, individually carved, with a gilded ceiling and various ornaments decking the halls. It also had very good acoustics, and the man's voice was amplified and kept the air ringing long after he shouted.

After a period of silence, the man began speaking very softly. "It took you three months to beat Falkner. Almost six to beat Bugsy. And now, it's taking you even longer to beat Whitney. When I adopted you into this family, I gave you a name, Cris!"

Cris knew that he was not exaggerating. The Piscatti name was known throughout most of Johto, and they were even spoken of in neighboring Kanto. It was a widely known fact that the Piscatti lineage had brought forth some of the greatest Pokémon trainers ever, and in fact, out of the seven recorded sightings of a Ho-oh and a Lugia descending to battle trainers, three of the trainers were of the Piscatti name.

But Carnegie, Cris's adopted father, had waited to long to wed, and by the time that he had settled down and taken a wife, he was sterile. So he looked throughout the region, in all of the orphanages, and picked out the one child who had shown the most potential as a Pokémon trainer. Cris had been selected, and then, when she was actually forced to battle, she cracked. She could not seem to fight with the skill, the grace, the aplomb that Piscattis were renowned for. She was an embarrassment.

Carnegie Piscatti whirled to look at his adopted daughter. She was fifteen years old. By this age, if she was to be a true Piscatti, she would have shown uncanny talent. But she had nothing of the sort. He supposed that was the problem with trying to teach someone with impure blood the art behind the Piscatti style of battling.

"Leave," he said. Catching the surprised look in his daughter's eyes, he turned away. "Go. Your aunt and uncle in Cherrygrove City have already raised two trainers. You will not get in their way, as they live alone. But you are in _my_ way. I must bring up a Piscatti. And you, Cris, are no Piscatti."

He turned his back on her and left the room, closing it firmly behind him. He did not smile, but inside, he felt mildly happy. Finally, he was free of that burden of a trainer. He now had to go through the trouble of adopting yet another child.

Cris, on the other hand, did not move, or indeed, react at all. But inside, she was beyond happy: she was elated. Because she, too, was finally free.

--

"Fierce winds are blowing," the old man Briney muttered. Sefira glanced up at him out of deep blue eyes, the color of sapphires. "On nights like these, the old sailors would pray to Rayquaza for protection."

Briney often mentioned the legendary Pokémon of Hoenn; the creatures of unimaginable power that created the seas, the land, and the peaceful skies. Rayquaza was the most powerful of the three deities of nature in the Hoenn region. It was an enormous dragon that flew high above the clouds, and could negate even the harshest of weathers.

"Rayquaza can't protect much now, can he?" Sefira muttered under her breath. She did not believe in the old stories. Even if she could wrap her mind around the idea of such powerful Pokémon existing, the notion that they could be sealed away with small orbs of power was the most flawed theory she had ever heard of.

"What's that, dearie?" the old man asked absently, but Sefira had no intention of answering, and besides, Briney's attention was focused on his Wingull, flying desperately against the downpour to lead the way for the old man's tiny ferry.

Sefira was trying to reach Dewford City, a small port on a tiny island south of the main island of Hoenn with a deceptive name; it was hardly a city - aside from the Pokémon Gym, and a small, dank cave suited only for Hikers and lovers of stones, there was nothing of interest. In fact, the main reason the town had developed was because ships needed a place to refuel before sailing the final stretch to Slateport City, the largest port in Hoenn.

Sefira did not like small, dank caves. And she was not planning on heading to Slateport until she had finished some business she had in Dewford. She was a Pokémon trainer – and a darn good one at that – who had been instructed at the Pokémon School in Rustboro City, and who had, surprisingly, beaten the Gym Leader Roxanne.

This was surprising, because Roxanne tried very hard to keep her pupils from becoming better than she was.

But Sefira had managed it, with the help of a few Pokémon that she had caught on her own – the Pokémon School students were supposed to train only with 'approved Pokémon'. She had captured a Ralts to the east of Petalburg City, and had evolved a Wurmple to a Silcoon, and finally a Beautifly.

But the Pokémon that had helped her most in her battle against Roxanne was her Nuzleaf, evolved from a Seedot that her brother had caught for her. With expertly aimed Bullet Seeds, that Nuzleaf had single-handedly taken down Roxanne's best Pokémon, Nosepass.

Sefira pulled her jacket around her head tightly. There was no 'indoors' on Briney's ferry, although there was a covered patio area. Unfortunately, the deluge was coming down so hard that the rain entered the covered area almost horizontally, splattering Sefira with cold, hard drops of pelting rain.

"Kyogre must be angry," Briney shouted over the rain, in a voice that sounded almost as if he was joking. Perhaps the cheerful note in his voice was just playfulness. Perhaps Briney believed in the old legends about as much as Sefira did.

But as the waves continued to grow larger and larger, and water began splashing on deck, and as Sefira began losing sight of the Wingull against the harsh gray of the sheet of rain in front of her, Sefira began thinking of the Sea Basin Pokémon that almost flooded the world, and she wondered, ever-so briefly, just how strong her skepticism really was.

--

A small brown Pokémon scurried around. His trainer dashed behind him, holding his Poké Ball loosely in one hand. The trainer's eyes dashed along with his Pokémon, as he tried to get a good shot to throw the Ball. Around him, his friends were laughing.

The hardest laugher was a boy named Quid, but he did not go by that name. His friends called him "The Shadow," or sometimes just "Dusk," because of his jet black hair, dark skin, and dark, dark brown eyes; so dark, you couldn't really tell where his pupils were. But he was called Dusk for another reason, mainly because of who his strongest Pokémon was.

"Murkrow!" he shouted tossing a Poké Ball from his side almost as if it was throwing itself. He did not nickname his Pokémon; he felt like it was a waste of time. They knew when they were being spoken to, and he felt as if it was slightly demeaning to give such glorious creatures such idiotic names.

"Use a Faint Attack," Dusk commanded idly. The boys around him stared up at him in awe. He was seventeen years old; the oldest boy in their town. Sandgem Town was pretty far to the south of most of Sinnoh, though not as south as Twinleaf town. Still, the only reason trainers came to Sandgem was when they got lost on their way to Jubilife City, and it was very hard to get lost on the way to Jubilife.

The small black crow Pokémon did not hesitate, and in the time that it took him to distort space around himself, Murkrow was already appearing in front of the Bidoof and smacking it fiercely with his wing. The Bidoof was sent sprawling, to uproarious laughter.

"Th-thanks, Dusk…" the small boy who was chasing after the Bidoof stuttered, as though he wondered whether Dusk had done anything to deserve thanking for. His Bidoof had seemed seriously injured; after all, Dusk's Murkrow was much more powerful than any of the local's Pokémon.

"That was inappropriate, _Quid_," came a sneering voice from behind the group of boys. Dusk rolled his eyes and groaned, because the sound of that voice was far too familiar to be anyone he enjoyed speaking with.

"Using battle moves on a non-battling Pokémon is a serious breach of every trainer's code. I believe the usual penalty is a monetary compensation somewhere in the realm of five hundred—"

"Shut it, Dawn," Dusk muttered. Dawn was not a cute little nickname for the girl he was addressing, though. It was her actual name. In fact, part of the reason that Dusk was called Dusk was because years and years ago, he had actually been relatively close to Dawn.

That was before she became annoying. She was younger than him, by about three years, and so she was at the stage where every teenage girl thinks she knows best. In Dawn's case, however, she usually did, and that only served to piss the hell out of Dusk.

"I bet you think you're very clever, don't you, Quid?" Dawn demanded, and the boys around Dusk snickered. Dusk had a very, very bad feeling that they were snickering at him, and he decided not to stick around to find out what the monetary compensation was for attacking a non-battle Pokémon trainer.

Besides, none of it really mattered. He was going to be leaving Sandgem soon, anyway. So, as Dawn continued babbling on behind him, he tuned her out, and wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, what Oreburgh City looked like.

--

Damien was very, very tired. It had been a long day, and even with the new helmet that he had purchased, several grains of sand had found their way into his nose, mouth, hair, and eyes. He needed a very long, thorough bath, and he knew that he did, which was why he had been quite upset to learn that the city was issuing yet another drought alert.

"For Ho-oh's sake," he muttered, running his hand through his dirty blonde hair to try and shake loose a few more grains of sand. "We're Phenac City. The city of _water_ in this rain-forsaken hellhole. If we can't get any water, then how the hell will anyone else?"

He released a Pokémon into the room. "Hello, Lancet," he muttered at his Dragonair. "Water Gun, if you please. I'd like to be doused." Lancet obliged by spouting a steady stream of water at her trainer, soaking him from head to toe. The floor of Damien's home was stone, and although the dirt got a bit muddy from the water, Damien knew Orre well enough to know that his floor would be dry again in about half an hour, as would he.

He patted his Dragonair's head idly and decided to let her stay out of her Ball for a while. He released his other Pokémon, too, almost as an afterthought, because he felt that at least someone should enjoy a day that was still very bright well into evening, and if anything could enjoy such a day, it would probably be a Leafeon.

Damien was twenty-four years old. In one of the _real _regions, he probably could have decided on a profession, or maybe even been a great Pokémon trainer. In this stupid joke of a region, he was a delivery boy for Poké Marts across the desert, and on the weekends, he helped out around the Pre Gym.

Pre Gym. Now that was a joke if Damien had ever seen one. The government's first – and only – attempt to 'modernize' the Orre region. It was absolutely pathetic. No type had ever been decided on. There were no level differentiations in the Pokémon. You either were strong and won, or you were weak and so you lost. And the head trainer… well, to be honest, he was something of a pushover.

Damien was saving up to try and move to one of the prettier regions. He had a cousin in Hoenn, actually, who was living in Slateport City at the time, and he tried to keep up a constant communication with him. In fact, Damien was booting up his personal computer – a dusty old contraption – and was going to attempt to contact his cousin again.

When the picture of his cousin flickered on the screen, Damien gave a tiny sigh of relief. Once a week, he was able to contact Mitchell – the name of his cousin – and never had Mitchell let him down. Damien smiled slightly as he leaned forward into the view of his computer's old screen, and asked the question that he always yearned for, because he always – no matter what – got a different answer for it. He loved those different answers. "How's the weather there, Mitchell?"

Mitchell smiled back at his cousin from thousands of miles away, but there was a slightly unsteady quality to his smile, for once. Or at least, Damien thought there was. He could have sworn that he saw it, but it was gone as quick as it had come.

"It's been raining. Hard."

--

Luke had managed to shut the door behind him. He set the Vulpix down on the floor, and kicked it when it did not begin to move of its own accord. He would not tolerate weakness in his tools.

He was deep underground at this point. The passage that he had been in before was carved in mountains, and the crumbling of the ceiling that had once been far above him had been the mountains' way of getting back at the insolent fools who built the passages. Luckily, only Pokémon had been used in the last stages of construction. It would have been terrible, Luke thought, if human beings had been harmed in the collapse.

In the chamber past the door, there were many stands, and on each of these stands was a small clay figurine. In the middle of all the stands stood a large platform, but nothing was on it. In the ceiling, there was another large hole, and sunlight streamed through it. The Vulpix whimpered and began clawing at the door. It was quite obvious, even to Luke, that the Vulpix did not feel comfortable inside of the chamber. Luke shrugged. He had only brought the beast in with him in case there had been any danger. Now that he seemed to be perfectly safe, he no longer needed the Vulpix.

He disposed of it. But he had not expected it to bleed so much.

He took off his bloodied boots. They were no longer necessary, as he would not be walking out of this chamber. He had lost all six of his best tools. It had taken him a lot of work to refine them to their peak strength. But now, he was about to get a lot more tools than just six.

He approached the first stand in front of him. On top of it was a sculpture of a shark-like creature, except that it had legs and arms. He remembered the name that his ancestors had given to this species: "Garchomp," they had called it. A sickeningly cutesy name. Luke did not approve. But he _did_ approve of the beasts themselves.

He lifted the small sculpture up to eye level, and stared at it for a very long time. Then, he began crushing it in his hands. Sharp clay cut into his palms and caused him to bleed. Blood trickled out of his palm, and the warmth ran down his wrist; a soothing sensation sharply contrasted by the excrutiating pain in his palm.

He clenched his jaw tightly and did not stop until the figurine was reduced to dust. Then, he looked at his hands, clay powder and blood mixed together, combined to make a sickening color. He then rubbed his hands together, and winced as his eyes flashed with pain. Finally, he slowly lifted his palm up to his nose and inhaled the blood and clay mixture quickly with unwavering determination.

He coughed. His vision swam in the tears that rushed to his eyes, and the pain in his head was so unbearable that he collapsed on the ground. He writhed back in forth in agony, as the backs of his eyelids burned a fierce white with pain. He opened his mouth, and a bellow that did not sound human erupted from within him, a cry of such agony and pain that he wondered briefly if he was going to die. The earth trembled around him.

Eventually, the pain subsided, and he grew still, panting rapidly as he tried his best to calm himself. After a while he heard a low, fierce growling noise, and when he opened his eyes he saw that in front of him stood a Garchomp. It had erupted from the ground, explaining the trembling, and it was enormous. Its body rippled with the strength of its muscles underneath its rough skin. It stared at Luke without the love and affection that all of his other tools had tried to show. It stared blankly into his eyes and did not move until he commanded it to, in a steady, raspy voice. Luke stared back at the beast. And then,

"Eat the Vulpix."

Luke knew that Pokémon, spite of whatever jokes were made about the Flying-type consuming the Bug-type, did not fatally wound each other, or indeed, touch a fellow dead Pokémon. It was something like a code of honor, it seemed. A Pokémon would most certainly never consumer another Pokémon - in fact, such a thing was unheard of.

But the Garchomp lifted the Vulpix up and began chewing on it, slowly and deliberately, as its new master had told it to. It had no thoughts. It had no need for thought. It had been given a directive, and it was very pleased to find that it was easy to complete the directive.

And Luke approved.


	2. The Immovable Object

Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon, or any other copyrighted material that may or may not appear in this or other fanfictions.

Author's Note: I like beginning my stories _in media res_. Details can come after the action, in my opinion, but it's important to start a story off strong rather than build into it, especially when you're doing an action story, like I've deluded myself into thinking that I'm writing.

**The Fate of the Gods**

Part 2: The Immovable Object

A boulder sailed through the air and slammed onto the earth, kicking up dust as it did so.

Then, the boulder began rolling itself around in a circular fashion, before pushing itself up off the ground using two long, rocky arms that did not look as if they belonged on an ordinary boulder. To complete the strange picture, chunks of rock on the front of the boulder shifted to reveal two eyes, which scanned the ground before it.

"Behind you, Geodude! Defense Curl!" The Geodude did not give a moment's thought to what he was hearing; he spun around on the spot and brought his arms close in front of his face, tightening his body into a small rocky ball. He felt something strong, hard, and deliberate crash down on his front, and his defense broke.

"Good going, Sniggle!" a young boy of about eleven years of age shouted. He was less than five feet tall, had thick brown hair and looked very lean, though it was a thinness that seemed to come more from a meager diet than from rigorous exercise. Brock glanced up at his opponent and his mouth flickered into a slight frown. He had never liked the idea of children training Pokémon, but the Pokémon League had never made regulations against child trainers.

"Low Kick, quick!" Cyril commanded his Mankey. Brock sighed. This was part of the problem, really. If the child trainers had an ounce of creativity in their minds, then he might not have minded their presence too much. As it were, they could only see the moveset their Pokédexes or PokéPocks – little pocket machines that displayed battle information – provided for them.

"Geodude, grab his leg and twist!" Brock ordered, and he felt a sort of grim satisfaction as he caught Cyril's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

The Geodude pulled himself up off the ground with his arms again as the Mankey soared towards him, one leg stretched out to strike. Deftly, the Geodude supported himself on one arm as he gripped the Mankey's ankle with the other. Then, he let go of the ground and swung back around the Mankey, holding onto him by his leg and head. Then, as the Mankey began to struggle, the Geodude pushed his weight down and smashed his opponent into the ground, letting go and soaring into the air when he heard the first crack.

Brock watched as his Pokémon landed neatly on the ground a few feet away from the Mankey, Sniggle, who continued to skid against the rough terrain. A trail of red followed Sniggle, and when he staggered to his feet, his nose looked slightly displaced, and blood was trickling from it.

"What did you–?" Cyril began, but couldn't find the words to continue. Brock sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Even when they saw it, they couldn't understand it. It was hard, thinking on your toes in the middle of a battle, and the Rock-type Gym Leader honestly believed that children couldn't do it.

"Stop staring at that thing," Brock said, his forceful voice ringing out over the battlefield as he pointed at the Pokédex in Cyril's hand, "and fight me. Or your Mankey will have more to worry about than a broken snout."

--

Cyril had been a bit surprised at the fact that, when he had arrived at the Gym, Brock had refused to battle him indoors. Instead, the Gym Leader had taken Cyril for a walk.

They had not spoken much throughout the trip. Brock had asked a few questions, regarding Cyril's age and hometown – eleven and Pallet, respectively – but Brock had seemed preoccupied with other thoughts, and didn't reply to Cyril's only question – "How old are you, sir?" – but had instead walked faster.

They had eventually stopped walking somewhere past a Pokémon Center at the entrance to Mount Moon. It was a hard path, walking up the face of the mountain, as it was not usually conquered in that way. Years ago the caves underneath Mount Moon had been made traveler-friendly – in a way – and that was how most people went from Pewter City to Cerulean City.

They had stopped in a semi-flat area. In the middle of the area was a small Poké Ball symbol made of rocks arranged in a pattern. To the east, the sun was setting, and most of the sky was painted a blood red except for a harsh orange line at the horizon.

Brock had sat down at the far end of the flat area, and stared at Cyril, who stood awkwardly at the other end. What had seemed like hours passed in what must have been a short amount of time, for the deep unsettling red of the sky did not waver. And then, finally,

"Why do you train Pokémon?"

It seemed like a very random – not to mention slightly personal – question to Cyril, and so he had not answered right away. But Brock made no move to repeat the question, or to change the subject. He merely stared at Cyril calmly, and finally, Cyril had been unnerved.

"I guess I tr—"

"You guess?" Brock had interrupted, but his voice remained perfectly calm. It was not a challenge or an outburst. In fact, Cyril didn't know what Brock meant by what he had said, and yet, he knew that he should not use the term 'guess' in his response.

"I train Pokémon because I want to be able to test my limits and the limits of my friends."

"There are many ways to test one's limits in this world, and many ways to do so with Pokémon." There was another long silence, but this one felt less awkward than the first. "Pokémon Rangers protect nature and Pokémon. Bug Catchers prize the varied insects more than any. Dragon Tamers revere the strength and grace of the illustrious dragon-types. And there are many more.

"We have no fancy name to describe what we are. We are merely this: Pokémon Trainers. Our job description is simple: train Pokémon for battle. But to do this, one must have a good reason." Again, silence. Cyril could not help but feel that he was being lectured, as a teacher would lecture a student.

"My reason is simple. Pokémon, especially Pokémon of the Rock-type, are ancient. The Rock-type Pokémon have been around from the beginning. Their origins reach back farther than our ancestors. Throughout all this time, they have not changed. They have reached a level of purity, of strength not only in strength, but in a defense unparalleled. They have their weaknesses, and those are varied; however, that they are still here is a testament to not only their will, but their power. As a trainer, I would seek to emulate that power, and by battling with them, I can learn from them."

Cyril stared down at Brock. The Gym Leader seemed young, as if he was barely going into his late teenage years, but he spoke with a serenity that seemed to reverberate with an ancient wisdom, and that was when Cyril realized that Brock did have such wisdom.

One did not become a Gym Leader for the Pokémon League without having learned a thing or two about battle.

And then, Brock stood up, with a rigidity that spoke not of stiffness, but of a power that moved quite fluently behind the rigid exterior. And he spoke, but Cyril could feel that the voice that seemed so calm had never been just calm. It had been… expectant. Anxious, even.

"And now, we battle."

--

"Grab his arms, Geodude."

"Leer, Sniggle! Scratch!" Cyril shouted, desperately, and Sniggle could hear the desperation in his trainer's voice, which unfortunately, only made him act sloppier. He glared at the Geodude rushing towards him and raised his paw hesitantly. Before he could act, though, the Geodude's face was right in front of his own, and he felt his upper arms being gripped tightly.

"Flip him."

Sniggle felt his body being raised up into the air and turned over, and distinctly heard a wet thud that he knew came from the top of his own head. His vision blurred slightly, and he could see a trickle of red on the ground in front of him, although it was severely hazy.

Cyril had put his Pokédex away, as Brock had ordered, but he had no idea what to do in terms of 'fighting'. The way that Brock fought was completely unpredictable. All of Cyril's other opponents had just used four moves, that was it. He had always had a victory easily. But this time… this time, Cyril was afraid. "Low Kick, Sniggle!"

"Defense Curl, Geodude," Brock muttered loud enough for his Pokémon to hear. Throughout the entire fight, that was the only move that he had told his Pokémon to use. Any good trainer knew that a Pokémon could fight much easier without using special moves. Unfortunately, Cyril was not a good trainer. People fighting the first Gym Leader rarely were, Brock lamented.

"Just keep using Low Kick! You'll break through eventually!" Faulty, stupid logic. Brock was relatively certain that at eleven years old, he had not been an idiot. He had learned his lesson the first time he had ever done something wrong. Cyril apparently lacked that ability. Just another reason he failed as a trainer.

"Grab his leg again, Geodude. See if you can pop his snout in the other direction this time," Brock added under his breath. It wouldn't do to sound so unsportsmanlike in an official Pokémon battle.

"Sniggle – Don't…" Cyril stammered as he saw the Geodude swooping around Sniggle's back. "Don't let him do it!" he shouted as the Geodude began pushing Sniggle down, and wildly, Sniggle resisted. The two Pokémon began tumbling, and finally, Sniggle was on top of the Geodude, pushing him into the ground as the skidded along. Finally, the Geodude snagged on some object, sending Sniggle flying.

Brock took one glance at his Geodude, and without needing the help of any display of battle information, he knew that his Pokémon had been pretty badly hurt, though not nearly as bad as Cyril's had been. Cyril called his Pokémon back to his Poké Ball, taking a quick peek at his Pokédex to see his opponent's hit points. They looked to be at about half, and Cyril felt very discouraged.

"That was lucky. 'Don't let him do it'? Please. I know you have absolutely no idea what you're doing, but you're embarrassing me, as well as yourself, with that kind of talk. This is a Pokémon battle, not a Play Park. Get your act together, or I will have no regrets kicking your ass."

Cyril blinked back tears of anger and hate as he fumbled at his belt for the only other Pokémon he had that could feasibly beat Brock. He pulled out a ball and released his Squirtle, Turtley, who scampered around quickly, surveying the field in a little dance meant to avoid any potential attacks from wild Pokémon. Cyril had not taught Turtley that trick, but he had been more than grateful to find that Turtley knew it.

"Use a Water Gun, Turtley!" Cyril had commanded, and Turtley quickly opened his mouth to let loose a fierce gush of water at the only opponent he could see on the field, the Geodude.

"Hide," Brock commanded simply, and his Geodude did just that. He twirled on the ground and kicked up a large cloud of dust, and when the dust was pierced by Turtley's Water Gun, the Geodude was not where he had been.

When the dust settled throughout the whole battlefield, the Geodude was nowhere to be found. Or actually, he was everywhere to be found. He had hidden himself as a rock, and unfortunately, over the course of the battle, many, many rocks had found their way onto the field, not just the small rocks forming the Poké Ball symbol. The Geodude could be anywhere.

"Rock Throw and hide," Brock commanded, and suddenly, from behind Turtley, a rock grew arms and eyes and lifted itself off the ground, picking up a sizeable rock that was close to it and throwing it swiftly at Turtley. Cyril reacted quickly, though in a way that Brock had easily foreseen.

"Hide inside your shell!" Cyril commanded. Brock shook his head. Perhaps he felt as if he was actually battling by not using a move from a moveset, but all he was really doing was commanding his Pokémon to use Withdraw. Nothing special, nothing like the 'hide' command that the Geodude had perfected. Cyril was still nothing more than a novice trainer.

The rock broke off of Turtley's back, causing damage, but not as much as it could have caused. Unfortunately, the Geodude was hidden again, somewhere on the rocky field, ready to strike whenever Brock gave the order to, and Cyril was powerless to do anything about it. Slowly, the realization that he was going to lose this battle swept over Cyril.

And that was unacceptable.

He gave his order. "Turtley, aim a Water Gun at the ground and don't stop until I tell you to!" Brock was surprised by Cyril's unconventional command – so surprised that he did not fully appreciate the implications of such a directive until it was too late.

"Geodude, stop hid—" But of course, it was too late. Brock, of all people, knew that a trainer had to think on his toes, or else his opponent will gain the upper hand, and as water flooded the battlefield, causing the Geodude to squirm in his hiding place, Brock knew that it was over.

"Hit him, Turtley!" Cyril commanded, and Turtley complied, shooting a sharp burst of water at the Rock Pokémon that knocked it out of its hiding place and far into the air. Turtley followed it with his Water Gun, dousing it so thoroughly that it began screeching loudly in pain.

Brock quickly called his Geodude back to his Poké Ball, and looked up at Cyril. Even from a distance, Brock could tell that his opponent was tense. He figured that Cyril most likely had few Pokémon suited for battling the Rock-type; this was mostly true for Pokémon trainers who had caught most of their Pokémon in the Viridian Forest and surrounding areas.

"Go, Onix," Brock said calmly, tossing another Poké Ball from his belt and catching it as it flew back at him, releasing an enormous creature that looked like a snake composed of large boulders.

Cyril glanced up at the creature, looming above him. It was enormous; it was beyond enormous. At the distance Cyril was, it was colossal, as if it could crush him with a flick of his tail, and in all honesty, it probably could. The beast slithered around on the ground, if 'slithered' could be used to describe its movement. The boulders that made up its body scraped and rolled against the rough earth, in a way that seemed to defy movement. And yet, the Onix rolled along quickly, twirling around Cyril faster than he could follow, and rearing its upper body again once Cyril and Turtley were trapped inside the circle its tail formed.

"That was very nice, what you did to beat my Geodude, Cyril. Quite… quaint." Brock stared at Cyril with a gaze that seemed solid – he did not blink. "Unfortunately… well, I believe the phrase is 'too little, too late'? You see, my Onix isn't any ordinary Onix."

His statement was emphasized by the Onix, who lifted himself a bit higher in the air, growling. The Onix stared down at Cyril and Turtley, both of who were slightly paralyzed with something that did not feel like fear, but must have been.

"I'm sure you've heard the age-old paradox of the unstoppable force and the immovable object? It's very simple. When you have a force that cannot be stopped, and an object that cannot be moved, what happens? Nothing, obviously. The two cannot exist at the same time.

"When a Rock-type Pokémon grows, it does not grow stronger in the traditional sense, like most other Pokémon, whose muscles and will grow more powerful. Instead, the rocks that compose their bodies solidify more and more, until they reach a point where they are almost like diamonds. This process does not come about through battle. It comes about through age.

"This Onix of mine has been passed down through each generation of my family. It has not solidified completely, but it is so close to doing so that its power comes from that fact that nothing can touch it. Cyril, I do applaud your attempts to win this battle. But this fight was over a very long time ago. Onix; crush him."

The Onix reared back one final time, and by all logic, it should not have been able to keep itself in the air. Physics took notice, and obliged in fulfilling its role; Onix's head came tumbling down, rushing at Turtley. Cyril barely had enough time to shout at him to get out of the way.

"Turtley, use a Water Gun!" Cyril commanded frantically, and Turtley complied, shooting a stream of water out of his mouth at the Onix's face. The Onix swerved to avoid it, and was hit on its flank by the gushing liquid. It gave a low, soft roar, as if it had been very slightly flicked.

"Those tactics won't work, Cyril," Brock muttered calmly. "This Onix is hardened, having served under many Gym Leaders before myself. It may not be at a very high level, but it is much more powerful than any of your Pokémon could handle. It'd be much better to call your Squirtle back and forfeit. It would save you both a lot of pain."

Cyril knew that he was probably right, and made a move to reach for his Poké Ball, when suddenly, the Onix's tail whizzed past his hand, only inches away. The force of the wind that followed loosened Cyril's grip and sent the Poké Ball flying halfway across the battlefield. There was no way that Cyril could reach it.

The Onix, on the other hand, needed no more instruction from Brock. It continued employing the same strategy, lifting itself up and crashing down rapidly. On the other hand, Turtley needed constant reminders to avoid the attacks. "Turtley, get out of there! Run away, stop trying to attack!" Cyril commanded, and Turtley looked up at his trainer for a short moment before turning around and dashing away from the Onix.

"Pursue him. Smash into him with your head if you have to," Brock commanded with an icy coolness to his voice. No, it wasn't icy; it was hard, like stone. Looking up at the Rock-type Gym Leader, Cyril finally recognized the power that rippled underneath his skin; it was the same force that seemed to ripple beneath the boulders of Onix. It was as if Brock had adopted his entire demeanor from watching his Onix battle.

Cyril knew it was hopeless. The Onix was far too powerful for Turtley to take him head on. Even if Turtley could connect a Water Gun at full strength, the Onix could take the hits without so much as flinching, and could rush Turtley full speed, straight into the Water Gun. And as Turtley dashed wildly along the battlefield as the Onix pursued heatedly, stopping only slightly every time it hit a stone and stumbled, Cyril knew what he had to do.

He stared at the two Pokémon madly sprinting across the field, and finally, at just the right moment, Cyril shouted, "Now, Turtley! Withdraw!"

"Pathetic!" Brock shouted, feeling slightly enraged that he was wasting so much time on such an obviously inferior challenger. Cyril had offered little resistance, and not once had Brock felt a pounding adrenaline rush from the battle. The battle was over, Brock knew, and he reached for his Onix's Poké Ball, disappointed—

And suddenly, he realized what Cyril had done.

As his Onix leaned forward for the final charge to smash Turtley's waiting shell, the Pokémon was snagged on a large stone, that caused him to stumble ever-so-slightly, which wouldn't have been a big deal, if the Squirtle hadn't, at that exact moment, pushed itself backwards at high speeds with a Water Gun attack delivered from inside of his shell, causing the Onix to snag once again and stumble, headfirst, into the ground. Boulder after boulder smashed into each other as the smooth, lithe power of the rock snake collapsed into a pile of rubble and stones, like a train flying off its tracks.

"Now, Turtley. Water Gun."

--

The battle was over. The sky was no longer red – neither trainer had taken much notice, but the sun had set while they were battling. Brock stood in the middle of the battlefield, and Cyril stood facing him. The two stared into each other's eyes, but there was no hostility between them.

"That… was very good. You knew that my Onix was too powerful for your Squirtle to beat alone, so you turned its own power against it. You tripped him up, and so he fell; like the unstoppable force and the immovable object. Neither can exist at the same time, so when they met, Onix stopped being an immovable object.

"That was. .. smart." Brock looked down into the eyes of the boy who had beaten him; the first trainer to have done so in quite some time, actually.

"I'm not sure why you want to be a trainer. Do you know?" Brock asked, and Cyril, slowly, shook his head.

"Not really, sir. But I do know that I'm already on the path to being one. So I might as well see it through, right?" Brock chuckled.

"I like that. You've got a little spunk, don't you, kid?" Cyril laughed in response, and the laughter was infectious. Brock felt his joints loosen up, ever so slightly. He hadn't felt an adrenaline rush towards the end of their battle, he had felt despair. But at least he had felt something.

"Here you go," Brock said, holding out his hand. He opened his palm, and in it was a small object, a gray badge in the shape of a stone. "The Boulder Badge. You'll need this as proof that you've beaten me, for when you finally make it to the Pokémon League."

Cyril reached out and took it. "Thank you very much, sir." He pinned it on the corner of his collar. "If… if you don't mind, sir, I'm going to head back down to the Pokémon Center. I don't think I could make it to Cerulean City before night falls, and to be honest… I'm kinda tired."

Brock nodded, and Cyril gave a little bow of his head. "Thank you again, for letting me battle you, sir. It was really a lot of fun," he said, as he started to make his way back down the mountainside. Brock stood standing where he was, silent.

The kid had potential, there was no doubt about it. In tight spots, he could think on his toes. In _very_ tight spots. But he had a lot of work to go before he was really ready to challenge the Pokémon League. Still, Brock had played his part in the kid's League challenge; and besides, he was beginning to feel an ache in his joints that had not been there before. As the stars shone overhead, he lowered himself down to a sitting position on the ground, and watched the back of Cyril's capped head slowly walk down the path to the base of Mount Moon.


End file.
